


Positive

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AIDS, Chronic Illness, Disease, Friendship, Gen, HIV, Hurt/Comfort, Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 19,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John finds out Sherlock is ill, he has to make sure. Really, absolutely sure. And for a while, it's okay, because medicine has advanced to the point where Sherlock isn't going to die any time soon. But when Sherlock takes a sharp downward turn, he asks John to do one last thing for him. </p><p>Not using warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't supposed to be an exciting night out. They were only supposed to be going for dinner.

John should have suspected it was something more, since it wasn't any of their usual places. In fact, it was in a rather unsavoury neighbourhood.

Sherlock always had an ulterior motive. (More like eight really.)

Because shortly after they arrived, an unsavoury man entered the even more unsavoury restaurant and began arguing with the man who seemed to be in charge. In some foreign language John couldn't recognize.

Sherlock seemed to understand it though, because as soon as the two men reached an agreement, or at least seemed to, and the unsavoury man who'd arrived, left, Sherlock leapt out of his seat and followed him.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, still gripping a menu.

With a sigh, he dropped the menu and dashed out the door in search of Sherlock. He caught a glimpse of the man in question just as Sherlock ran down the street after him, in full pursuit. God knows why Sherlock was chasing him, but there had to be some reason. Some inevitably screwed up reason, sure, but that was still a reason.

_And if he's not guilty, why is he running?_

He took off after them, really not looking forward to some merry chase, only ending when the man was captured, either by being landed on, or something equally fun, or when one of them was hit by a car.

 

Of course, Sherlock managed to cut his hand on a fence, attempting to leap over it like some superhero in a cape, instead just being weighed down by his coat. The coat was similar to a cape, except having the unfortunate feature of being stupidly heavy when wet, which happened to be the case. (It was also raining. John was having a great night.)

He'd slipped down, hissing under his breath as John caught up.

“Which way did he go?” he asked breathlessly.

Sherlock shook his head. “Doesn't matter. Let's just go home.”

John frowned. It was like Sherlock to simply give up, but the weather was crap, and he certainly wasn't going to argue.

They took a cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock was quiet on the ride, and wouldn't let John near his hand, hiding it inside his coat instead.

His wet coat that was flung off as soon as they entered the flat.

 

“Is your hand okay?” John asked.

Sherlock waved him off with the other. “It's fine.”

John frowned. He was pretty sure it wasn't, but he wasn't Sherlock's mother, and considering he couldn't see much, if any, blood on Sherlock's sleeve, he wasn't too concerned.

 

Sherlock collapsed on the couch shortly after. It was most likely the usual post-case collapse, but John wanted to make sure.

And to check on that hand.

Thankfully, it wasn't buried underneath Sherlock like it was some of the time he slept. John carefully peeled his fingers away from his palm to examine the wound. It wasn't too deep, and likely hadn't caused any real damage. Still, he'd rather be safe than sorry.

 

“You probably shouldn't be doing that,” Sherlock said, deathly quiet.

John's head snapped up.

“I didn't think you were awake,” he stammered.

“I wasn't,” Sherlock replied, retracting his hand.

John looked down. “Sorry. But you really should let me finish examining that.”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, tucking his bleeding hand behind his back. “Not without gloves.”

“Sherlock!” John protested. “I don't care! Come on, I'm almost done.”

“No,” Sherlock said, and that was final.

John saw the determination in his eyes, and knew that fighting Sherlock further would be useless.

He stepped back.

“Alright. I'll get the first aid kits. It has gloves. Stay there,” he warned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John. Where else would he go?

 

John brought the first aid kit back with him and snapped on a pair of gloves.

He held his gloved hands out, waiting for Sherlock to reveal the injury.

He reluctantly complied.

“I have taken care of you before Sherlock. All those times you refused to believe something may be broken, all those bruises I had to poke and prod at before you admitted they might hurt just a little. This is nothing new.”

“It's not safe,” Sherlock muttered, barely loud enough for John to hear.

John looked up with concern. “Of course it is.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's not safe for _you,_ ” he emphasized. “You know by now that I have little regard for my own health.”

John frowned. “You don't need stitches, but I'll stick some butterflies on it.”

Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

John ignored him and carefully applied the strips to Sherlock's hand. Afterwards, he covered his hand with gauze for good measure.

Only then did he strip his gloves off.

“I am a doctor you know,” he said without looking at Sherlock, instead choosing to focus on the contents of the first aid kit. “If there's anything that you want to tell me...”

Sherlock sighed. “John, you're so incredibly transparent. If you want to know something, just ask.”

John straightened up and turned to look at him. “I know that you were a drug user, so if you have hepatitis or something, okay, I can deal with that. It really doesn't matter-”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted.

John nodded. “Okay. But like I said before, it's fine-”

“Not hepatitis,” he said more softly.

“But?...” John prompted.

 

Sherlock seemed to be considering something for a moment before speaking. “I am HIV positive.”

“Positive?” John breathed.

“Yes, absolutely,” Sherlock smirked.

John shot him a dirty look.

Sherlock continued, attempting to smooth over his terrible attempt at humour. “I'm in the clinical latency phase,” he said calmly, like he was talking about doing the shopping (ha) or something equally mundane. “Have been for a while now. I'm doing fine.”

He kept going, pretending that John wasn't glaring daggers at him.

“But, I'd rather not infect you,” he smirked. “So gloves from now on when dealing with open wounds. Or the possibility of blood.”

John frowned, but nodded. “Any reason you hadn't told me before?”

Sherlock snorted. “Why would I? You nag me enough as it is about sleeping and eating, and I can only imagine it's going to get worse now.”

John shrugged. _Yeah, probably._ “Who knows?”

Sherlock pulled his cuff back down and buttoned it up. “You, Mycroft, Lestrade... my doctor.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Lestrade knows? But not Mrs Hudson?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mrs Hudson would only worry. And Lestrade found out in... a rather unfortunate way.” He grimaced.

John frowned. “That's something we can talk about later. What about your CD4 counts?”

“I get tested every three months. They've been relatively stable. I was last at 423. And with the drugs, my viral load is almost non-existent. It's fine John,” he repeated.

“Drugs?” John whispered.

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. “Yes John, the antiretroviral drugs I'm taking.” He smirked. “Did you think I was talking about drugs of the illegal sort? Alas, no.”

“Fine,” John repeated.

“Have I broken you?” Sherlock asked, but he did so with a fond smile on his face.

John sat down in his armchair. “No, it's just a lot to process. I mean, you never told me. It's a bit of a shock honestly.”

“Tends to be,” Sherlock muttered.

John had no response to that.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked, looking Sherlock in the eye.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I hadn't figured out how yet. It never seemed like it would be the right time. Besides,” he continued. “There was a very good chance I would have been shot by some criminal sooner, and then this whole problem would have been out of the way.”

John looked up, not sure how to respond to that.

Sherlock smirked at him.

“Yeah,” John agreed. “There could have been that.” He slouched in the chair and laughed hoarsely.

“I think we'd best go to bed,” Sherlock decided.

“That is the most sensible thing I've ever heard from you.” John stared at him. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh piss off,” Sherlock growled, prompting John to fall into a fit of giggles.

“You're obviously overtired,” he declared before stalking off to bed, leaving John to his own devices.


	2. Chapter 2

John found the bottle of pills on the kitchen counter the next morning. Apparently Sherlock no longer felt the need to hide them in his room.

He took note of the doctor's name, knowing that he was going to be looking into all aspects of Sherlock's treatment, despite what the man himself may say.

 

Speaking of the man, he was perched on the couch in classic thinking position, bandage on his hand still in place.

He had managed to get himself changed at least, into pyjamas and his housecoat, which John counted as a success. Often, he'd forget that he was wearing dirty clothes, or even worse, would forget he wasn't wearing anything else at all.

 

“Got printouts of my lab results for you,” he muttered.

Startled, John looked up at him. “What?”

Sherlock cracked open an eye and looked at John. “My lab results,” he enunciated. “I got printouts for you. Figured you'd want to see them. Start a file or something.” He gestured towards one of the stacks of books, and sure enough, John could make out lab values.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again, replacing his fingers under his chin.

“So how did Lestrade find out?” John asked conversationally.

Sherlock groaned. “Really?”

“Either you can tell me, or I'll ask him.”

Sherlock huffed, but rolled onto his side to face John, who had taken a seat in his armchair.

 

“So what was this... unfortunate way?” John asked, when it seemed like Sherlock wasn't going to say anything.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Any way of him finding out would be unfortunate,” he huffed.

John levelled a glare at him.

Sherlock sighed, and continued. “As you know, I did use drugs for a period of time.”

“Did you use a dirty needle?” John offered, not wanting to think of the other option. Most infections were acquired through sex, and considering Sherlock's addiction, John didn't want to consider what that meant.

Sherlock glared at him. “It wasn't an infected needle. I made sure I only used clean needles.” He shook his head. “No, it was later. I had an open wound... Some junkie bled all over me. He was the one who was using dirty needles, not me. Never.”

He sighed. “I went into the acute stage three weeks later, ended up in hospital. When you combine acute retroviral syndrome, withdrawal, malnutrition, and dehydration, it's really not a pleasant time.”

John shivered. “I can imagine.” He'd seen all of those, but only one at a time, and to have them all at the same time... he could hardly imagine what Sherlock must have felt. “Where does Lestrade come into this?”

Sherlock scowled. “He was the one who found me and hauled me into A&E. When they found out I was positive, they had to make sure he hadn't come in to contact with any sources of infection. He hadn't, by the way,” Sherlock added.

“Of course, I'd already deduced his marriage was falling apart, that the suspect he was looking for was a young female, not an older male, and that he'd already met Mycroft, who advised him against coming to see me.”

He paused.

“Of course, he didn't listen.” He smirked. “I helped him solve two more cases that day. Then he invited me to crime scenes. He didn't care about my status. It wasn't going to hurt anyone. So of course he knows.”

“Nobody else?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock frowned, and ticked people off on his fingers. “Mycroft, Lestrade, you. Nope. If anyone else knows I've deleted them.”

John shrugged. “Alright.”

It was probably for the best. Even with increased public awareness, HIV and AIDS were still heavily stigmatized, and Sherlock really didn't need any more reasons for people to poke fun at him.

Being an arrogant know-it-all, or as he preferred to call it, 'the world's only consulting detective' was enough.

 

“You will tell me though, won't you?”

Sherlock frowned. “Tell you what?”

“If you're ever not well. If you're sick. If your counts change, or your doctor decides to change your meds or something.”

“Well, I'm not going to do the last two.”

John frowned. “Why not?”

“If you want to know you can come to the appointments,” Sherlock replied flippantly.

John smiled. “Only if you want me to.”

“If it means I won't have to regurgitate everything afterwards, then yes.”

He resumed his position, and closed his eyes, indicating the conversation was well and truly over for the time being.

 

John gathered the lab results and headed upstairs to make a file.


	3. Chapter 3

The next doctors appointment was only a few weeks after that.

John asked again before going if it was alright with Sherlock.

“I don't have to come if you don't want me to. The lab results are enough.”

Sherlock waved a hand at him. “Don't be ridiculous. It's not like anything is going to happen that I'm not going to tell you later. This just saves me the hassle.”

John shrugged, and accompanied him in the cab.

 

He'd had his blood drawn two days prior, and the results were sitting in the file on Doctor Rosalind's desk.

John liked her immediately. She could deal with Sherlock.

 

“Who's this?” she asked as John trailed into the room after Sherlock.

“John Watson. Flatmate. He's a doctor too.”

“You live with a doctor?” she asked in disbelief, standing up to shake John's hand.

John smiled. “I actually think it's more of me living with him. But that about sums it up, yeah. Of course, he only told me a few weeks ago after I tried to treat his hand where he sliced it open.”

 

Sherlock held it up. The scab was fading to light pink. It would probably leave a scar, but barely. Not that Sherlock cared. He collected scars like trophies.

Doctor Rosalind sighed at Sherlock. “You really should have told him sooner.”

“So?” Sherlock retorted. “It wouldn't have changed anything.”

“You would have limited your friend's risk of exposure,” she pointed out.

Sherlock sulked at that.

John watched the exchange with interest.

 

She sat back down. “How have you been feeling?”

“Fine,” he growled.

She chuckled. “No need to pout. No new symptoms then?”

“No symptoms at all,” Sherlock snapped.

She softened. “You can't still be telling yourself that Sherlock.”

He glared at her. “Who says I am?”

She pulled the sheet of paper out. “Lab results don't lie. Your counts have changed, and not in a good way. Nothing drastic, but enough that you should be experiencing some symptoms. Fatigue, weight loss, night sweats, muscle aches, anything like that?”

Sherlock only glared at her.

John glanced between them uncomfortably. “Muscle aches maybe Sherlock?”

“No,” he snapped. “I run around London. Muscle aches are normal when you do that.”

Doctor Rosalind smiled, but there was a hint of sadness to it. “Of course. Well, your CD4 count has dropped a bit, it's down to 392 from 423. And your virus load is up from almost non-detectable, which was probably around 50, knowing the lab here, to 80. Not huge changes, but they are significant.” She looked up at him. “Are you being compliant with your medication?”

Sherlock seemed to have reached the stage where he wasn't going to fight anymore.

“Yes,” he sighed.

She nodded. “That's good. So you're probably not becoming resistant to the antivirals. This is likely just the natural progression of the disease.”

Sherlock muttered something that sounded a lot like 'nothing natural about it', but Doctor Rosalind didn't seem to hear.

 

John frowned. “Sorry, can you just refresh me on when AIDS is diagnosed? I'm a trauma surgeon, not a whole lot of experience in infectious disease.”

She nodded. “Of course. AIDS is clinically diagnosed when the CD4 count is below 200, or there is a the presence of an AIDS defining condition, such as PCP pneumonia, Kaposi's sarcoma, or any number of other things. Usually an AIDS defining condition only takes hold when the CD4 count is near there. Sherlock still has a ways to go before we worry about that though.” She smiled at John.

 

They discussed possibly changing Sherlock's medication and the side effects of doing that.

In the end, they simply added another one on top of the combined antiviral he was already taking.

They had a follow-up in two months and orders for blood work.

 

“Basically worst appointment you could have come to,” Sherlock noted glumly in the cab. “All the others were just 'oh, your CD4 counts are great, your virus load is non-detectable, but you really should be getting more sleep and eating better!' And this time it's basically saying...” he sighed without finishing his sentence.

 

He was quiet for the rest of the car ride.

John added the latest lab report to his growing file.


	4. Chapter 4

“You're going to have to be more careful about getting sick,” John noted the next morning over breakfast. He was eating toast and Sherlock was examining a soil sample under his microscope. “No more mould experiments.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes around the microscope. “John, when was the last time I did a mould experiment- _on purpose,_ ” he continued, as John opened his mouth to protest.

John closed his mouth, then opened it again, in an excellent imitation of a fish.

“I actually can't remember,” he admitted. “A year?”

“Pretty much,” Sherlock agreed. “The rest were.... accidents.”

“Bread under your bed is hardly an accident,” John muttered.

Sherlock glared at him. “I've already apologized for that. What more do you want?”

John sighed, but didn't say anything.

 

* * *

 

 

John quickly memorized statistics. He may not have studied infectious disease in depth in medical school, but that didn't mean the numbers weren't burned into his brain. Lab values, timelines, statistics, rates of infection, medications, side effects. The information quickly moved from quantitative to qualitative. Less focus on days, more focus on how those days were spent. Quality of life, pain, emotional and otherwise.

Because even though the numbers were the ones that stuck, it was the things you couldn't count that kept cycling through John's brain night after night.

He wondered how Sherlock dealt with it.

 

“They have their own room in my mind palace,” he told John when he worked up the courage to ask about it. “And they know by now not to come out.”

John examined Sherlock's expression.

 

John didn't ask how that worked, but he wondered.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock chose a lazy Sunday morning to talk about it. They were both sipping tea and eating biscuits that Mrs Hudson had brought upstairs to them, claiming she had made too many. It was nearing the end of October, and while there weren't many trees to see changing colour near Baker Street, the thought warmed John nonetheless. He wasn't sure why in that moment Sherlock figured it would be good to talk about serious and depressing things, but he was glad that he was talking about them.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and set his teacup down.

“John, I don't want to get to the wasting stage,” he said quietly. John was barely sure he'd even heard it. But Sherlock continued. “I know I probably won't, considering what I do, I'll probably end up with an opportunistic infection... But I don't want to take that risk.” He looked away from his friend. “I've already put some of the measures in place, but in case that I'm unable to do it on my own, will you be able to help me?”

John frowned. “I don't understand what you're asking me Sherlock.”

Sherlock only smiled sadly. “You do. You just wish you don't.” He gave John a minute to accept what his brain was trying to tell him, but his heart was fighting.

“ _Sherlock!”_ John hissed, peering around, as though police were going to burst in at of the mere mention of assisted suicide. “What- no, just... no.” He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He refused to look at Sherlock. “I don't know why you're even talking about it. You're doing well. And you will for a long time.”

“When it comes time, you may think differently,” Sherlock noted.

John shook his head again. “I'm a doctor Sherlock, I heal. Do no harm. I can't help you...” he trailed off, the words seeming too painful to say.

Sherlock examined him. “That may be what you're supposed to say, but I don't think it's what will end up happening. But if the topic does bother you, we don't need to discuss it.”

“Yes, the topic _does_ bother me,” John snapped, picking a paper up off the table and unfolding it loudly, holding it up in front of him as a shield.

 

Both were silent for a while.

“Another biscuit?” John asked, an olive branch.

Sherlock nodded.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock awoke from his nightmare with a start. The details were already slipping away, leaving only vague outlines of emotions, panic mostly.

He sighed. Nightmares were never an indicator of a great day ahead.

He shifted position, and it became apparent that it had been a stressful nightmare indeed. His pyjamas were soaked through with sweat.

Sherlock sighed, but hauled himself out of bed. There was no way he'd be able to sleep if he was... damp. Of course, there was no guarantee he'd be able to sleep after he changed, but there would at least be a chance.

Grabbing a spare set out of his drawers, he stumbled to the bathroom. He flicked the light on, despite his better judgement, and winced as his eyes were overwhelmed.

He pulled his shirt off first, dropping it on the floor. He would pick it up, otherwise John would ask too many questions.

Sherlock sighed. John was always asking too many questions. He knew it was because his friend worried, but sometimes it irritated him.

 

Eyes adjusting to the light, Sherlock glanced at himself in the mirror.

He looked pretty awful. The lack of sleep was getting to him. Between the case and the nightmare, he hadn't slept well for the last couple of nights, and it showed. The angles of his face were more pronounced, the dark curves under his eyes that weren't usually present.

He rubbed his face and stepped back, grabbing the shirt off the toilet lid.

He caught a glimpse of his torso in the mirror, the ribs pronounced underneath his pale flesh. Sherlock couldn't remember them being that... apparent before, but he could have forgotten.

Lifting an arm up, he traced them, watching in the mirror as he did so.

No, they were definitely more apparent. Which meant weight loss.

 

Shrugging the shirt on, and replacing his trousers, Sherlock pulled the scale out from under the sink. He prodded it on with a foot and waited for it to start.

He really didn't need to see the number to know. It was apparent in the outline of his bones, the angles of his face. To be honest, he was surprised he hadn't noticed before.

But the flashing number confirmed it. He'd lost a pound in a week.

Sherlock sighed, and tucked the scale back under the sink. He tossed the dirty clothes on the floor of his room and crawled back into bed.

4:37am. He hoped he'd be able to sleep for at least another hour.


	7. Chapter 7

He slept for three.

His pyjamas were damp when he woke up again after 7:30, but he hadn't been having a nightmare. Which only confirmed what he'd suspected.

 

Sherlock found the thought of telling John difficult, but knew if he didn't, he would find out in another way, then just be hurt that he hadn't been told.

 

So he did it over breakfast.

John had made toast with jam, three slices. John only ate two.

Sherlock casually nibbled at the extra slice.

“So I think my CD4 count may have dropped a bit,” he said conversationally.

John nearly choked on his toast, which Sherlock had not been expecting. Had he known John would react so drastically, he would have waited until he'd swallowed.

He watched John take a sip of his tea (too hot, his tongue would be burnt) before answering.

“Sorry, what? How?”

Sherlock sighed. Of course John would want details.

“Night sweats. Some weight loss,” he admitted. And there was. Not a drastic amount, but he'd been careful about his diet since the last appointment. He shouldn't have been losing weight. And night sweats in November? No.

John recovered from his near choking, and nodded.

“Are you going to set up an appointment?”

“Already have. Friday.”

John nodded. It was Tuesday.

 

There were no cases that week.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had blood drawn the next day.

He told John there was no need to accompany him.

“I'm a grown man, and I've been doing this for years. I can handle a little needle stick on my own. Stay home,” he ordered John, who did.

And John _knew_ that, knew it like he knew that Sherlock had been an intravenous drug user before This. (A fact which John still didn't like to think about, since however indirectly, it had still led to This.) Needles didn't frighten him, and the sight of blood was no issue, as demonstrated at dozens of crime scenes, that included blood, and sometimes worse.

But Sherlock often acted like a child rather than an adult. John didn't point that out.

He let Sherlock go to the lab on his own.

 

* * *

 

 

Doctor Rosalind wasn't smiling when she greeted them. Her mouth may have been, but her eyes weren't.

“Sherlock, John,” she said. “I'd like to say it's good to see you, but it's a month before I'm supposed to.”

They sat down.

Her office was becoming like home to them. They had their spots, Sherlock felt no need to keep his shoes on, choosing instead to kick them off and curl his legs up underneath him.

He didn't do that today.

“So Sherlock, you've been experiencing some more symptoms?” she asked softly. Like you'd speak to a frightened animal.

He nodded, ticking them off on his fingers as he spoke. “Night sweats. Weight loss. Some GI upset.”

She consulted the chart. “Indeed weight loss. You were a bit below average to begin with, and now you've dropped 10 more pounds.” She glanced up at him. “You're still eating well I hope.”

He nodded, and she smiled as John confirmed it as well. A note was made in the chart. “And you think your CD4 counts have dropped?”

He nodded again.

She sighed. “Well, you're right about that, unfortunately. You've dropped to 325. You have advanced immunosuppression and got constitutional symptoms now, not just limited to one part of your body.”

She looked Sherlock in the eye.

“Based on the WHO guidelines, you're in stage three now,” she said gently. “Symptomatic HIV infection.”

He only nodded.

“I want to run some more tests. With you being this immunocompromised, there's no telling what sort of nasty thing you may have picked up. You're going to have to be more careful from now on, you understand that, right?”

Sherlock nodded again.

Doctor Rosalind seemed relieved.

“I've booked you in next week at the same time. I want to run those labs, consult some of my team members. Then we can discuss what this means, and what we'll do if anything else is positive.”

Sherlock nodded.

John wondered if he had any words left, or if they'd all gone with the pounds and the CD4 count, never to return. Perhaps he was shocked into silence with the new found information. He had done that before, just stopped speaking in order to integrate new knowledge into his mind palace. John wondered if that was the case.

 

Sherlock gave their address to the cab driver, and muttered to himself for a good part of the ride, throwing John's theory out the window, which he was thankful for. Rather, John was the one who seemed to be at a loss for words, wanting to say something, anything, to Sherlock, but just not knowing what. Especially since there were so many things that could make it worse.

 

Sherlock tried to discuss dinner options with John in the cab, but he was less than receptive.

“I'm not very hungry, so it's up to you. Thai? Chinese? Italian? Angelo's is always good if you're unsure.”

John only shook his head, which Sherlock took to mean he didn't care.

Sherlock texted Angelo, asking him to prepare their usual pasta and deliver it whenever it was done. Angelo responded in the affirmative, his reply obviously cheerful despite the limited medium. Sherlock smiled at it. That was one thing about Angelo. The man never seemed depressed.

 

He set his phone down, but neither man said anything.

John shook his head. “I don't understand Sherlock. You were supposed to have more time. So much more time. It's not fair!”

Sherlock only continued to look blankly off into the distance.

“Yes,” he muttered. “I was supposed to.”

 

Tendrils of rage clutched at John's heart. It wasn't fair. It really wasn't.

Sherlock was young and healthy. He wasn't supposed to be on track to develop full blown AIDS before the age of forty.

No one should.

But most certainly not him.


	9. Chapter 9

Doctor Rosalind had no explanation for them the next week. “Honestly, I've made them run the lab results three and four times. We can't explain it,” she said helplessly. “I've consulted a number of other doctors around the London, but none of them could come up with a reasonable explanation, besides what I already suggested.” She sighed. “The virus has become immune to the drugs, and somehow it managed to develop into stage three HIV in less than six months.”

John clenched his fists, but managed to keep a blank expression.

He heard Sherlock ask her how long. _How long until it would become AIDS._

She paused before answering. “As with anyone, it's hard to say. Usually, one to three years, but I can't say that with any amount of certainty.”

John saw Sherlock nod out of the corner of his eye as he continued to focus on his flexing hands.

“So, likely closer to one.”

She nodded.

Sherlock exhaled. “One year,” he whispered.

John thought that Doctor Rosalind would object, explain how it could be so much longer than that, so very different, but she didn't.

He knew he liked her for a reason. No false hope. No fooling them. No lying to Sherlock, not when it was his life on the line. Because he'd know.

“Thank you,” he breathed, standing up.

He even held his hand out for her to shake, which she did, graciously.

Numb, John nodded at her and followed Sherlock as he turned on his heel and left. John knew they would be back there soon enough.

 

* * *

 

 

They were back the next week to mess around with Sherlock's meds.

Sherlock was reluctant to change anything, since he'd only experienced horrible side effects previously when he'd tried other drugs, but the doctor assured him they'd changed drastically in just those few years.

John didn't know what to think. He mostly floated through the appointments, picking up information to neatly tuck away in his file for later.

He supposed it was shock. He wondered how Sherlock was taking it, since it was his life, his body, his illness.

Would be his death.

John shook the idea out of his head, and tried to listen to Sherlock argue about the virtues of different protease inhibitors.

 

* * *

 

 

In the cab on the way home, John had a sudden thought.

“What does Mycroft think about all this?”

John didn't even have to say what 'this' was, it was known.

Sherlock shrugged and didn't look up from his phone.

“I do believe he put quite a bit of pressure on medical research, but he's only the British government. There's not much he can do.”

John nodded. It was a sad state of affairs when even the British government couldn't save his little brother's life.


	10. Chapter 10

John shifted in his chair. He was beyond uncomfortable. It wasn't the chair itself, even though that was bad, some sort of plastic horror, but it was his location that was making him so uneasy.

 

Doctor Rosalind had managed to coax Sherlock into going to a support group. And Sherlock, being himself, managed to agree to it only if John accompanied him.

John loved the woman, he really did, but he was not pleased with the turn of events that had led to him sitting in some stuffy conference room at a community centre, sitting in a circle with a bunch of HIV+ strangers and their loved ones. Some of them weren't visibly ill, but it was easy to tell the ones who were.

Sometimes John hated being a doctor.

 

Sherlock had folded his knees up and his arms were wrapped around them, holding them on the chair. It made for a rather neat ball of consulting detective. At least he hadn't taken his shoes off, which John had been working on.

 

The woman at the front of the room seemed to be in charge.

“I'm Cara,” she said, smiling at them all. “Just to make sure everyone's in the right place, this is the mixed peer support group for HIV.”

The people around the circle nodded and murmured in agreement.

“That's good. We don't want anyone thinking they're here for the knitting club. That has happened before.” She smiled again.

“Now, I believe we all know each other except for one new addition,” she said, gesturing to Sherlock, who was working rather hard at not scowling, a fact which John was rather proud about. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

 _No, he really wouldn't,_ John knew, but thankfully, Sherlock simply sighed, and unwrapped his long legs, placing them back on the ground.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said simply. Cara's smile faded somewhat.

“And what about you?” she asked, looking to John.

“Oh, I'm John Watson. I'm Sherlock's friend. Part of the deal to get him here was me coming along.” He smiled sheepishly, and Cara seemed amused by his response.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

“Well Sherlock, perhaps after hearing from some of our other members, you might feel inclined to share a bit more.”

John knew it wasn't likely, but he crossed his fingers that Sherlock wouldn't announce that.

He'd given Sherlock a speech about being on his best behaviour, and Doctor Rosalind had made sure to impress upon the Sherlock the fact that by abusing everyone at the support group, he would not get out of going, but that it would simply be more unpleasant. John was thankful he didn't have to be the one to say it.

Cara started them off. “Well, as you've heard, I'm Cara, and I've been HIV positive for six years now. I'm married to a wonderful man, who is a teacher. We don't have any children, but we do have a chinchilla that we tend to spoil.”

She nodded to the next person in the circle, which was a middle aged man.

“Oh, right. I'm Chris, and I've been HIV positive for nine months. I'm in legal administration, which is boring but pays the bills. I have a thirteen year old daughter who is growing up far too fast.” He smiled, and leaned back in his chair, signalling he was finished.

Cara nodded to the next person.

 

They continued around the circle, young women, married men, unmarried men, gay men, teenagers, elderly men, middle aged women with children and pets. Every demographic was covered. John was interested to hear how other people spent their lives, having real jobs instead of what Sherlock called a job.

The teenaged girl, who probably wasn't a teenager, more of a young adult, was studying for an arts and business degree at college. She spoke highly of the future, of wanting to open an art gallery and display her work.

One of the older woman ran a flower arranging store. One of the younger men drove a cab. (John glanced over at Sherlock when he heard that, wondering if they'd ridden with him before. Sherlock shook his head.)

Sherlock sat up straighter when he heard that the young woman with a new baby worked in chemistry. John fought back a smile. The poor woman would likely be bombarded with questions later on, and not about her baby, like normal people would ask.

Some people had brought family members, loved ones, best friends, while others had come alone. Many of them hadn't yet progressed to AIDS, or even to the third stage of HIV.

John envied them.

 

When they'd finished the circle, Cara looked back at Sherlock.

“Anything you'd like to add? Either of you?” she said, looking at John as well.

“I am a consulting detective,” Sherlock announced. “The only one in the world. I invented the job. I've been HIV positive for three years and nine months, and I've just gone into the third stage. John is my best friend and flatmate. He's a doctor with a history of military service, until he was shot and invalided home. Now he acts as a chronicler of my adventures and triumphs.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Cara clapped her hands together.

“Oh, how wonderful. But Sherlock, you know that we won't judge here. You can be free to tell us the nature of your relationship if you want.”

John protested at that.

“No, we're actually just friends. I have a girlfriend even.”

“Not for much longer,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, not loud enough for anyone but John to hear.

Most of the people in the circle just smiled.

John hated when they did that.

 

They moved on to talking about other things.

This week the meeting was based around healthy relationship, including the sexual aspect.

(John couldn't help but feel like Doctor Rosalind had known that when sending them there. Despite what both of them insisted multiple times before, she seemed to still be under the impression that they were together. Or perhaps just pretended to believe that, as a way of teasing them. It was hard to tell.)

Cara talked about safe sex, and how most cases of HIV were sexually transmitted. She moved on to discuss how partners could still have an active relationship without risking their partner's health.

One of the gay men who'd come with his partner looked at John pointedly while Cara spoke, and John did his best not to blush.

(Besides, he wasn't just blushing about the man looking at him, the topic was sensitive, even for John to listen to as a doctor, having spoken to patients about it many times before. Of course, it didn't help that Sherlock was sitting next to him looking entirely disinterested. “Sex doesn't alarm me” indeed.)

 

They ended the session with meditation.

John would have been fine with that, except Cara put on some sort of motivational CD that walked them through visualization exercises, all designed to beat their illness.

It wasn't specific, just kept mentioning 'envision your cells winning' and 'see yourself getting stronger'. John was all for positive thinking, but this was getting ridiculous.

And he could hear Sherlock next to him getting antsy. (He was a bit surprised he'd been behaving so well so far. He hadn't acted out on purpose yet. John was again reminded of the state of his life, dealing with an adult who acted like a child.)

 

When the CD finished playing, Sherlock practically sprinted out of the room.

“See you next week!” Cara called after him, and even though John could tell she wanted to talk to him, he grinned sheepishly and ducked out after his flatmate.

Sherlock had already hailed a cab.

John climbed in after him.

 

They sat in silence for a split second before John opened his mouth.

“Well that was-” John began.

“Awful,” Sherlock concluded.

“Completely.”

“Entirely.”

“Just... not good at all.”

Sherlock smirked. “Glad to see we're on the same page at least.”

John sighed. “Yeah, we won't be going back. I'll tell Doctor Rosalind. I wonder if she thought it was actually going to work out, or if she just wanted a laugh.”

“John,” Sherlock scolded. “That would be unprofessional of her.”

John raised an eyebrow. “So?”

 

John called her the next day, and practically heard the smile in her voice.

“Well, I hoped it would go a bit better than that, but I can't say I'm surprised. I didn't expect you to take such a dislike to it as well though.”

“Did you know it had themed discussions?” he asked.

She didn't say anything for a moment. That was answer enough.

“Do they?” she said finally.

John rolled his eyes at her attempt to lie. “See you soon.”


	11. Chapter 11

It was late November by the time John got around to sitting Mrs Hudson down and telling her. He supposed a part of it was because he dreaded her reaction, which would inevitably be tears. He had to mentally prepare himself for that.

He'd broken bad news before, of course, many times. He'd told people that their family members were dead, or dying. He'd told people they'd lost a limb, or their sight.

But never had he had to tell someone he was so close to.

No wonder Sherlock hadn't told him for so long.

 

They did it in her kitchen, both clutching mugs of tea like they were life preservers, a plate of biscuits in between them.

Sherlock hadn't come. John hadn't expected him to. He wasn't good with emotions.

 

John trailed a finger around the top of the mug.

“John, dear, I know you're having trouble with whatever it is you need to tell me, but I just want you to know that whatever it is, it's fine.” She smiled reassuringly.

John blushed despite himself. “No Mrs Hudson, it's not like that.” He leaned forward. “You may have noticed that Sherlock hasn't been his usual self lately, sleeping more, less late night chases, that sort of thing.”

She frowned. “Well, now that you mention it, I suppose so.”

John nodded. “Yeah. He's not his usual self because he's sick. I only found out recently, because Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell me for a while, until he had to.”

She waited for him to go on.

He exhaled. “Sherlock is HIV positive. He's progressed into the third stage, which means he's showing symptoms now, which isn't a great sign. I just thought you should know before he starts getting worse, and then it all sort of happens by accident.”

“What?” she squeaked. “When... how long?”

“Almost four years now. So as long as you've known him, right?”

She nodded.

“He's been on medication that kept him healthy, for the most part, but now the virus is becoming immune, and it's spreading.”

“Is he going to die?”

John nodded. “Hopefully not for a while, but the HIV will progress to AIDS, and it will kill him.”

He looked up at her to see tears welling in her eyes.

“Oh Mrs Hudson...” He got out of his chair and knelt down next to hers, embracing her in his arms.

“That silly boy,” she sniffed. “He should have told me. I could have done something, tried to help...” She sniffed again, and John rocked her.

“No, there wasn't anything you could have done. There's nothing I can do, and I'm a doctor. You've done wonderfully taking care of him, however much you protest that you're not.”

She smiled, and John smiled back.

“He does make such a mess sometimes... The body parts in the fridge!” Her smile faded. “Is that how he got it? Body parts? Or was it...” she lowered her voice, “unprotected sex?”

John shook his head. “No on both counts. It was through contact with someone else's blood. An accident.”

Mrs Hudson sighed. “I hate the word accident. It implies that something could have been done to stop it.”

John straightened up, an arm still around Mrs Hudson's shoulder.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It sort of does.”


	12. Chapter 12

Christmas was different that year.

They were both far too aware that it could be his last.

Mrs Hudson didn't even bother with their usual routine of fighting them about getting a tree in the flat, and she even helped decorate it.

Sherlock 'supervised' (his words, not John's), which meant he lazed about on the couch, criticizing their work.

 

When it was all said and done, the flat looked quite Christmasy, stockings hung on the fireplace, Christmas cards laid out, and even Billy was adorned with a stocking hat.

Sherlock had muttered about how hats were useless for skulls, since they were meant to keep in body heat, and since Billy didn't _have_ a body, there was no point. Mrs Hudson threw a pillow at him as he said that.

He pouted until she made him a cup of gingerbread tea.

 

* * *

 

 

“Does Molly know?”

Sherlock glanced up at him. “Why should she?”

John stared at him. “Because she's our friend. Because she likes you a lot, even if it's unrequited. Because she deserves to know, rather than find out later when it's too late for her to come to terms with it.”

“You mean when I'm dead.”

John sighed. “Or something along those lines.”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you wish to tell her, I wouldn't be opposed to it. But I'm certainly not going to do it. She'd be worse than Mrs Hudson.”

 

And indeed, Sherlock had struggled with Mrs Hudson. After John had told her, and they'd finished speaking, she had marched upstairs, demanded he stop reading 'that silly book' and give her a hug.

John had found the scene far more amusing than he should have, Sherlock's arms awkwardly wrapped around Mrs Hudson as she tried not to cry.

He'd embraced her before, and it had been more natural then, but John supposed the sheer amount of emotions and unspoken words forced something between them. Pity.

Perhaps the tears would melt it.

He headed off to the kitchen to make tea, which somehow had managed to help.

 

Sherlock was right. Molly would be just as bad.

John sighed. “I'll invite her around for a cuppa then. You can be out if you want, but you will have to talk to her eventually, and it might be best if you didn't save it for the Christmas party.”

Sherlock glanced up. “Christmas party?”

John looked at him. “It's been mentioned before. Recall tree decorating? Mrs Hudson and I were discussing who to invite, and when we asked you, your only reply was a humming noise, which we took to mean you didn't care who we invited.”

Sherlock frowned. “So who's coming?”

“Lestrade and Molly. And Mrs Hudson of course.”

Sherlock nodded. “Will there be a girlfriend of the month?”

John glared at him. “Not likely.”

“I was only asking.”

John sighed, but texted Molly, inviting her over the next day.


	13. Chapter 13

“Hi Molly,” John said.

“Hello John,” she replied, shaking her hair out from her hat.

They exchanged pleasantries as they traipsed up the stairs and into the kitchen, where the kettle was near boiling.

John offered her a gingerbread man. “Mrs Hudson made them, but Sherlock decorated them,” he said by way of explanation.

Molly stared at the assortment of cookies, all of them covered in a combination of red icing, purple spots, or strange markings.

“He made each of them a murder victim,” John sighed. “Mrs Hudson thought it was amusing until he started explaining the cases behind them.”

Molly's eyes widened, and she selected a cookie without another word.

(John didn't tell her that the one she'd chosen had been brutally raped, then strangled. He thought it might ruin her appetite.)

 

He poured them both a cup of tea after the kettle whistled, handing Molly her cup and sitting across from her at the table.

“Is Sherlock here?” she asked, taking a sip and nibbling on the leg of her murder victim.

John shook his head. “He's... out.” He failed to mention that he'd gone out five minutes before she was due to arrive, and told John that she had better be gone by the time the library closed.

She nodded, and took another sip, biting the ankle off.

 

“I did have to talk to you about something though,” he said hesitantly.

Molly peered up at him. “Of course.”

“It's about Sherlock. And he is fine with me telling you this, but didn't want to be the one to do it.”

“Is that why he's not here?” Molly demanded.

 _Shit._ John shook his head. “No, that was... something else. Anyway...” he took a deep breath. “Sherlock is HIV positive, and has gone into the third stage, which means he's showing symptoms now. His doctor estimated that he had around a year before he developed full blown AIDS, and that was a month ago.”

Molly blinked at him, her face devoid of any emotions.

“John Watson, if you are playing some cruel trick on me, designed by Sherlock to drive me away, or something, then I swear-”

“No!” John yelped. “I can show you lab reports, test results, prescriptions, anything really, but I swear, I'm not lying.” He shook his head and frowned. “You should know by now that I'd never do anything like that to you.”

Molly nodded. “I suppose... I thought it was preferable,” she whispered, and promptly burst into tears.

John pushed the tissue box at her that he'd placed on the table for precisely that purpose.

She took one and dabbed at her eyes.

“I suppose it's one of the last things I'd expect of him. He never _seemed_ sick, or showed any signs...” she paused to sniffle. “But I suppose he's always been like that, nothing and then... bam.” She shook her head sadly. “A year?” she whispered, looking up at John again, her eyes still wet.

John had to look away, lest he start tearing up as well. “Yeah, about that, until he develops AIDS. Then... whatever time comes after that. Because there will be more, but it won't be what he's used to. It certainly won't be crime scenes and chasing criminals at all hours. It might not even be experiments in the morgue.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“And I know it's going to be hard, but please, try to act as normal as possible around Sherlock. He knows that I've told you, so there's no need to pretend it didn't happen, or it doesn't exist, but he is probably tired of answering questions. We told Mrs Hudson last week.”

She nodded.

“And you told me now... because of the party?”

John shrugged. “That's part of the reason. Everyone else there will know, so it only seems fair. Besides, you are one of Sherlock's friends.” He smiled at her, and she attempted one in return.

“So the Detective Inspector knows?” she asked, blushing slightly.

John nodded. “He knew before I did, but that's something you'll have to ask him or Sherlock about.”

Molly frowned. “When did you find out?”

John shrugged. “Only a few months ago, after I tried to treat him for a bleeding hand. He was sort of forced to tell me after that.”

“And is that it? Nobody else?”

“Well, his brother knows, but yeah, that's about it. His doctor of course, some of her associates, that sort of thing. But no one else at the Yard knows, and we'd rather hope to keep it that way.” His eyes darkened as he said that, and Molly understood what he meant.

She sipped at her tea again, and began working on the arm.

“Well, while we're on the subject of Sherlock, do you have any idea of what I could get him for Christmas? He's so hard to buy for.”

John smiled, and nodded. “There's a pair of gloves I've seen him coveting, but I told him he's not allowed to buy anything else for himself until after Christmas and his birthday. They're black, and you can find them...”

John continued on, Molly nodding attentively, asking all the right questions, until her tea and murder victim were both gone.

John bid her farewell, and fired off a text to Sherlock.

 

Safe to come home now. -JW

 

Sherlock didn't return until two hours later with a rolling cart of books.

John stared at them in disbelief.

“What?” he said defensively. “I couldn't decide.”

John only waved a hand at him, and went off to the kitchen to snicker quietly.


	14. Chapter 14

The Christmas party was largely uneventful.

Lestrade drank too much spiked eggnog, Molly became giggly, Mrs Hudson had one of her herbal soothers earlier than she was supposed to, and Sherlock was just generally in a typical mood. Holiday cheer seemed to have little effect on him.

 

That was on the 23rd, and Sherlock was mellower on Christmas eve, allowing John to watch movies, and even sat with him. He nitpicked about the accuracy, of course.

“You can't wish yourself out of existence,” he pointed out. “Cogito ergo sum. So a large portion of this movie is pointless, other than to show what effect he has had on other people's lives. But that can be accomplished without the whole angel showing him what life would be without him thing.”

John only sighed, and ignored him.

 

He spoke when it was over. “It's not about the physics, or even the philosophy of it. It's about knowing that everyone is important, no matter how small they think they are.”

Sherlock tilted his head and pondered that. “Really? Is everyone important? I can't imagine that out of the seven billion people on this planet, if one was never born, would the world really be that different? I suppose it would depend on the person...” he mused.

John stared at him. “You don't get to decide who's important Sherlock. No one does.”

Sherlock seemed a little put out, and went back to his laptop.

 

A short while later, he spoke again.

“Am I important John?”

John smiled. “Of course.”

Sherlock looked pleased, and abandoned his computer in favour of the violin. He played soothing carols until he went to bed.

 

Frankly, John was surprised he wasn't up at the crack of dawn like children were, peering under the tree for presents, eager to get the day started.

Instead he wandered out around 9, when the tea was almost finished.

He tucked two presents under the tree, and didn't even bother telling John what he'd deduced about the ones labelled for him, which was a lovely surprise.

He even seemed surprised when he opened them later, one of them being the set of gloves Molly decided against getting him (she went for something more personal), and the other being a new magnifying lens, the same as his previous one, but this one engraved.

“I know that yours has been through some rough times, getting dropped during chases, nearly getting crushed in your pocket when you tackled criminals, so I figured you could use a new one.”

He didn't mention the engraving, and neither did Sherlock. There was no need to. _To both see and observe._ A gentle reminder that some things were easier to see just by looking.

Sherlock seemed genuinely pleased, which thrilled John to no end.

 

He played the violin most of Christmas day, taking breaks for snacks and drinks, unwrapping the occasional present, and giving Mrs Hudson a peck on the cheek when she came up to bring cookies.

“Oh, that's lovely Sherlock,” she said admirably as he finished a rendition of 'We Three Kings'. “I don't know why you can't play like that all the time instead of those strange sounds you are so fond of making.” She shook her head. “Dinner will be at five, and your brother phoned me to tell me that he would be able to make it after all.”

Sherlock groaned. “You invited him?”

She looked surprised. “No, I didn't. John?”

John was just as bewildered as the rest of them, and shook his head.

“Great,” Sherlock groaned. “Mycroft has invited himself to our nice quiet dinner, and he's going to eat all the pie.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson scolded. “You stop that. Besides, I've made two pies. I'll keep one in the fridge just for you and John.” She winked.

“You're a saint,” John told her.

Sherlock played her out with a more upbeat tune, sounding suspiciously like 'Frosty the Snowman'.

 

Mycroft arrived promptly at five, bearing gifts in the form of wine, and three neatly wrapped packages. Sherlock glanced at them in disgust. “Anthea do your wrapping again?”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes. Did you even bother to wrap the presents you gave?” He glanced at John, who nodded.

“Wasn't gorgeous, but it was done.”

 

“Oh, hello Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said, bustling out of her flat, apron still tied around her waist.

“Mycroft, please,” he told her, handing her the bottle of wine.

She nodded, and examined it. “This looks expensive. I'm afraid I'm no good at telling with this sort of thing though.”

Sherlock muttered something underneath his breath that no one else could make out, but John was sure it was better that way.

He steered Sherlock towards the kitchen and sat him down at the table, where he ordered him to stay. He did, surprisingly, and they managed to have a near normal dinner, or the nearest it could be with the Holmes brothers at the same table.

But no one ended up in hospital, so John considered it a success.

 

Sherlock had given Mrs Hudson a lovely knitted scarf, which she'd praised for being 'just her colours'. John didn't want to know if Sherlock had done that on purpose, and instead handed her another package, which she opened to find a new set of tea cups, to help make up for the two that Sherlock recently broke.

She hugged them both, and sent them back to their flat with an extra slice of apple pie each, which Sherlock happily devoured as soon as he assumed his position on the couch.

“Open your present,” he mumbled to John, his mouth half full of pie.

John didn't bother to correct him, but instead picked the final present out from underneath the tree, neatly labelled _John._ It was indeed wrapped, not gorgeously, but with a simple elegance.

 

John was rather intrigued to find out what was inside.

He unwrapped the paper to find a nondescript box, which he pried open to reveal an ornately carved wooden heart. The detail was breathtaking, and it was even more impressive once John realized it opened to reveal the inner chambers.

“It's gorgeous...” he breathed, examining every inch of it. “I don't know what to say Sherlock.”

“There's no need,” he said simply. “I know.”

John smiled, and the warm feeling that spread throughout his body had little to do with the tea he was drinking, and more to do with the moment, as Sherlock picked up his violin again and began playing a hauntingly beautiful peace that John couldn't place.

 

It was only many weeks later that John noticed the tiny writing on the apex of the heart, labelling it as Sherlock's heart, belonging to one John H Watson.


	15. Chapter 15

The new year began, and Sherlock remained relatively well throughout the winter.

 

There were still cases. There had to be. John was sure that Sherlock would blow up the flat, or do something equally ridiculous if his brain wasn't properly stimulated.

But Lestrade was more careful about which ones he asked Sherlock to come to. Sometimes he'd only bring a file, and ask for Sherlock's opinion on the crime scene photos. More often than not, Sherlock would sniff at them, and tell Lestrade to come back when someone other than Anderson had taken the photos.

He hadn't been the one to inform Lestrade. John wasn't quite sure how he knew, or even if he did. Perhaps it was just a general understanding that things would not longer be getting better. Perhaps Sherlock had texted him, sent him medical files in his own way of letting Greg know he was important. Who knows, maybe it was Mycroft's doing, and Sherlock had just accepted it by now.

 

But as long as no one else knew, John was happy. He could only imagine how Anderson would react.

John had a sudden urge to polish his gun, just in case.

He squelched it.

 

Sherlock fell ill in February, nothing serious, but could have turned so quickly, which meant he was trapped in the flat, no venturing out for cases.

Unfortunately for everyone, that was when the combination of rotten weather putting everyone on edge and the Valentine's festivities led to a slight jump in the number of homicides committed. Sherlock was pleased about the possibility of more crimes, but was not pleased about being trapped in the flat while there were murders to solve.

“I feel fine,” he whined.

“Yup. And you'll feel fine up until the moment you collapse. I know how you function Sherlock. You may just have a cold now, but your immune system is further weakened, and with your luck, you'd end up with pneumonia. You're not going.”

Sherlock pouted, and seemed to give up on the idea, but John sent Lestrade a text, telling him not to come calling, just to be safe.

Lestrade sent one back, saying he was sorry, since there was a really good one that Sherlock would have liked. John ignored him. There was no chance in hell he was letting Sherlock out of the flat.

 

Valentine's day went by with no crime scenes for Sherlock, instead, just a pie that Mrs Hudson had thoughtfully made when she heard Sherlock was under the weather.

It made the bad day a little more bearable.

The other thing that made it bearable was the James Bond films John put on, and Sherlock managed to sit through parts of without insulting.

Progress.

Of course, he still moaned about the lack of a nice Valentine murder.

 

Lucky for Sherlock, later that week, when he was recovered enough that John allowed him out of the house, a double homicide turned up. Leftovers. He was beyond thrilled.

 

John, along with pretty much everyone, was less that thrilled when Sally decided to ask why Sherlock hadn't been at any crime scenes recently.

“You should have seen the one on Valentine's. It was a blood bath. Just your thing. Where were you? On a date or something?” She smirked.

Sherlock looked appalled at the mention of such a gruesome crime scene he hadn't been invited to. He shot Lestrade a glance that meant he was in deep trouble, but Lestrade didn't scare that easily, and stood his ground.

“He was sick,” John told her, rather shortly. He wasn't in the mood for dealing with her, especially now that Sherlock had been upset again, so soon after being ill and locked out of cases, _which they certainly weren't going to tell him about._

Perhaps some sensitivity training was in order. John would think it over.

The only redeeming factor was that Sally had no one to smirk at with the mention of Sherlock being ill, as Anderson was not working the crime scene.

John thanked the heavens for small miracles.

Then wondered why they really had to be so small.

 

Sherlock moped for the better part of the next week after finding out there was a crime scene ranking at least an 8 that he wasn't invited to.

John ignored him for the most part, ensuring he ate and slept, since all he needed was to get sick again so soon, a fact which he reminded Sherlock of. It was the one redeeming factor, since the threat of future crime scene lockouts was one of the only things that he'd listen to.

 

The incident was soon forgotten.  


	16. Chapter 16

Doctor Rosalind made the suggestion of visiting a therapist at one of their monthly appointments.

She said it in such a way that John nearly burst out laughing, and Sherlock actually smiled.

“I thought not,” she said wryly. “But it's a new policy that I ask.”

Sherlock only smirked at her. “I think not, especially if it turns out anything like the support group.”

She grimaced. “I apologized for that already. More than once.”

“And it can never be enough,” John muttered under his breath.

She sobered slightly. “Although in all seriousness, it is something you should consider Sherlock. HIV is a chronic and eventually fatal condition. It may do you good to talk about it.”

Sherlock seriously doubted it, but he considered it for a moment nonetheless. Talking about his feelings _and his plans_ with a total stranger? Not likely.

“I don't think so,” he told her.

She examined him, and nodded. “I'm glad you at least seriously considered it. If you ever change your mind, you do know where to find me.”

Sherlock nodded. “I don't think I will.”

“Right. So, onto those lab results...”

 

* * *

 

 

When they were between cases, John noticed there was a lot less of Sherlock simply lying on the couch, and instead, more typing.

After observing for a few days, just to make sure he hadn't imagined it, John asked him.

“You writing a blog post? About the science of love and murder or something?”

“No,” Sherlock replied.

And that was all. No telling John off, no rolling his eyes at the ridiculous subject matter, nothing.

Now John was curious.

“So what are you writing?”

“Words. Words. Wooooorrrrrrdddssss,” he drawled.

“Very funny. Are you just not going to tell me?”

“That is correct,” he confirmed.

John shrugged. “Alright.”

As long as it was keeping him occupied, John didn't really care.

Of course, he was still curious.

 

* * *

 

 

Months passed, roaring by in between doctor's appointments where number continued to nudge into the less than desirable range, despite what medications they switched or changed.

Cases were still frequent, but not at the intensity they were before. John couldn't remember the last time they'd gone on a chase, and frankly, was relieved. It was never his favourite part. That, and having to save Sherlock's life from criminals. It may have given him an adrenaline rush he enjoyed, but it was never worth the panic, the fear, of knowing that if he did something ever so slightly differently, that it would mean the end.

 

Now, he mostly had other things to worry about.

 

The weather warmed, as much as it did for London, and spring rains turned into summer rains.

All was still well, or at least, as well as it could be, under the circumstances.

The illusion of normality was a wonderful thing.


	17. Chapter 17

“John!” Sherlock called from the bathroom. “Come here!”

John rolled his eyes, but flung down the paper he wasn't reading.

“If you've gotten body parts stuck in the shower again, I am not the one who is telling Mrs Hudson. She already knows it's you, so you might as well take the blame.”

He stood in the doorway.

“Well? Are there body parts or not?”

Sherlock shook his head and laughed.

“Look,” he said bitterly, holding up his dressing gown for John to see the lesion on his back. It wasn't large, maybe an inch, if that, but it wasn't the size that mattered.

It was its very existence.

“Kaposi's sarcoma.”

John nodded. “Most likely.”

“It's an AIDS defining condition.”

John only nodded again.

“One hundred and eight days,” Sherlock muttered.

“What's that?”

Sherlock dropped his gown and turned to face John. “One hundred and eight days until the year mark. It shouldn't have happened before then.”

He pushed past John and turned into his bedroom, digging something out from under his bed.

John only trailed behind him helplessly.

“Sherlock, what are you-”

“She said one to three years John. Before it became AIDS. Not before I died. There's a big difference.”

John would have said Sherlock's voice was cracking, except he knew that wasn't possible. Of course.

He'd pulled out a massive binder.

John suspected it was a lot like the medical file he had upstairs, but from the beginning. Handwritten notes, prescriptions, things he'd jotted down and didn't know what else to do with.

He flipped to the back, which must have been where the newest things were.

John peered over his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Sherlock had begun rocking back and forth on his heels, staring at the page.

It was right there, in Sherlock's scrawling hand.

'One to three years before AIDS develops. Likely closer to one. Estimated date: November 2012. Likely death: before November 2013.'

John watched as Sherlock covered it up with a sticky note and made a new note.

He had to leave. He didn't want Sherlock to see him cry.

 

* * *

 

 

They were returning from the doctor's appointment the next day when Sherlock told him.

“I don't want chemo, John.”

John wished he could argue, but he couldn't. He didn't have the will in him to fight, and besides, there was nothing to say.

“I know,” he sighed instead.

He'd just sat through the appointment, where they were informed of the benefits, side effects, and effectiveness of a number of different treatments for Kaposi's, which Doctor Rosalind was fairly certain the lesion was. She'd set up a biopsy to make sure, but even then, none of them were promising. Not when they both knew it was only a matter of time.

“I know,” he repeated to himself.

 

They didn't say anything else.

By the time they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock's head had dipped to John's shoulder, and he was sound asleep.

John got the cabbie to drive around for a few more minutes, not wanting to wake him just yet.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was asleep one afternoon, when Mycroft decided to show up.

He didn't bother ringing the doorbell, just let himself in and appeared at the top of the stairs, frightening John to no end.

“Jesus, Mycroft!” he moaned, nearly falling out of his chair. “Sherlock's asleep, which I suspect you knew.”

Mycroft nodded, and sat down in the chair across from John. Sherlock's chair.

“It's you I wish to speak to.”

John sighed, trying to urge his heartbeat back down after the sudden start.

“I was afraid of that.”

Mycroft didn't even make his usual tight lipped smile. He just looked sad.

“Sherlock allows me access to his medical records, it saves me having to ask, him declining, and the tiresome fight over it, which I eventually win. Some of the more recent reports are gravely concerning.”

John nodded slowly. “It's not looking great,” he admitted. “He's progressed to AIDS, sooner than we'd hoped he would.”

“And the cancer?” Mycroft whispered.

“Kaposi's sarcoma. It's an AIDS defining condition. Tumours are caused by the infection. For now they're just on his skin, but they spread.”

Mycroft nodded. “Is there treatment?”

John shrugged. “There's chemo. The best treatment is treating the HIV, but we're a bit beyond that now. His antiretrovirals aren't doing as much any more.”

“Chemo?”

John shook his head. “He doesn't want it. And I can't blame him. Frankly, it's probably not worth it.”

Mycroft didn't say anything for a few minutes.

“If there's ever anything... don't hesitate to ask.”

John nodded as Mycroft stood up.

“There's nothing now, but later, I'm sure...” he trailed off. Neither wanted to hear what they already knew.

“Thank you. John.”

John only nodded, and Mycroft swept off down the stairs, just as silently as he appeared.

He returned to the blog post he'd been working on for weeks.

None of the words seemed to fit any more, and he found his finger drifting to the backspace bar more often than not.

What could he say, after all.


	19. Chapter 19

“I don't like your cough,” John declared.

Sherlock looked at him sleepily, having just gotten out of bed, wandering to the kitchen in search of tea. At least he'd managed to put trousers on.

“I think it would be odd if you did,” Sherlock muttered, peering into John's mug hopefully.

John swatted Sherlock's hand away. “I'll make you your own. And a doctor's appointment.”

“Why,” Sherlock whined.

John rolled his eyes. “God, you're grumpy in the mornings. Maybe it has something to do with your severely compromised immune system, and the fact that something as simple as a cold could potentially kill you?”

“Is that all?” Sherlock grumbled, slouching into his chair.

“Pretty much sums it up,” John replied, grabbing a clean mug out of the cupboard. “Besides, it's already done. Tomorrow morning.”

“Don't tell me you're going to do it if you've already done it,” Sherlock said bitterly.

John shrugged. “At least Doctor Rosalind was considerate enough to fit us in tomorrow, trusting my judgement that you didn't need to go to A&E tonight, and possibly be admitted. Because if she'd told me, I would have dragged you there, no matter how much you kicked and screaming. So there's something to be thankful for.”

Sherlock was quiet for the next few minutes until he was handed his tea.

“I want you resting today,” John warned. “We're not going out, you're definitely not taking cases, and you will be spending most of the day either on the couch or your bed.”

Sherlock glared at him, only conceding when John held his tea hostage.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Fetch me my violin.”

Sighing, John did just that. He didn't bother trying to get Sherlock to use his manners. It was no use when he was grumpy and sick. John would just end up getting something thrown at him, most likely the hot tea he'd just made.

Sherlock made a face when he was handed his violin. “What did you put in this tea?”

“Honey. Deal with it. It could help your cough.”

Sherlock didn't say anything, but John noted he continued taking sips, until most of the mug was empty.

 

* * *

 

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock did keep to the couch for most of the day.

The violin kept him occupied for long periods, and most of the rest was spent thinking, which was code for sleeping. Most of the time anyway.

Sherlock claimed he was in his mind palace, but when John could hear him snoring slightly, didn't quite believe him anymore.

Not that he'd say anything.

 

He managed to coax the detective into eating some soup for dinner, after receiving a text from Mycroft, suggesting that he try potato.

Sherlock ate half the bowl, and John made a note to tell Mrs Hudson about it next time she inquired about what sort of food she should make for Sherlock.

 

When Sherlock had nearly fallen asleep sitting up (again) John figured it was time for bed.

“Couch or bed tonight?” John asked, standing over him.

Sherlock blinked at him. “What?”

“Are you going to sleep in your bed, or on the couch?”

Sherlock frowned. “Bed,” he sighed.

“Right. Up you get,” John grunted, heaving Sherlock up by his arms and leading him in the direction of the bedroom.

“I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own,” Sherlock muttered as he nearly walked into a wall.

“I know,” John said. “But this makes me feel better.”

 

After Sherlock fell into bed, John looked at him.

“Well, you didn't get dressed today, so I don't have to force you into pyjamas.”

Sherlock murmured in agreement, his eyes already closed.

John sighed, but smiled at him.

He rolled the man on to one side of the bed, pulled the covers down, and rolled him back.

“There's no need to manhandle me John,” he muttered.

“Well, then perhaps you should go to bed before you get to this point.”

Sherlock hummed as John pulled the blankets up to his chin.

“Good night Sherlock,” John whispered, and turned out the light.


	20. Chapter 20

John awoke with a start.

For a minute, he wasn't sure of where he was, but soon came to recognize the living room of their flat. Why had he fallen asleep there?

A cough from the bedroom reminded him.

He'd stayed downstairs last night, listening in case Sherlock needed him, and must have fallen asleep.

 

He stretched, his left shoulder twinging.

Well, he was already awake. He might as well check on Sherlock, who was still coughing. John could hear him from the living room, and it only got louder as he grew nearer. He pondered stopping to make a cup of tea, but figured he could do that after, if Sherlock was even awake enough to drink it.

 

John cracked the door open, and had to wait as his eyes adjusted to the light. He hadn't had anything thrown at him yet, which was a relief.

Sherlock was lying on his side, still mostly under the covers, although he'd flipped multiple times, tangling them underneath him.

John had just been able to make out the shape of Sherlock's face when he spoke.

“John,” he whispered.

The fear in his voice was enough to make John flick the lights on.

Sherlock groaned and shielded his eyes.

John didn't have time to be concerned about that, because he was too busy taking stock of Sherlock. His shirt was spattered with blood, and there was a fine mist on the covers. The pillow seemed to have taken the brunt of it, a relatively large stain next to his head.

“Fuck.”

John called for the ambulance while slipping the gloves on that were kept in the night table.

He was propping Sherlock up with the pillows when he hung up, with an estimated time of eight minutes until the ambulance arrived.

“Eight minutes Sherlock,” he soothed, kneeling next to him on the bed. “Does it hurt more than just a cough should?”

He received only a weak glance in response.

John dabbed at his cheek with the corner of the bed sheet.

Sherlock frowned.

“We'll have to get new ones anyway,” John pointed out.

Sherlock sighed, which only caused more blood to mist out of his mouth and onto John's sweater.

“Thanks,” he sighed.

Sherlock glared at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I know you're not trying. I mean, you're not, right?”

Sherlock only shrugged.

John grinned at him. “Let's hope so.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, and John tapped him on the cheek.

“Hey, stay awake.”

“I am,” he mumbled, “Just resting my eyes.”

“Of course,” John muttered.

 

The sirens grew closer, and John kept tapping Sherlock's cheek, forcing him to open his eyes and focus on him until they did arrive. Sherlock was irritated every time he did it, but John was only too pleased that he reacted, considering what the alternative meant.

A glance at the clock when the sirens stopped meant the countdown ended after only seven minutes. John barely had time to wonder if Mycroft could influence the paramedics before he realized he hadn't informed Mrs Hudson what was going on. He could only hope that she'd heard the sirens, and figured out it was something Sherlock related. Indeed, shortly after he could hear voices at the bottom of the stairs, and footsteps coming up them.

“We're in here Mrs Hudson,” John called.

 

Hurried footsteps came down the hall, and soon Mrs Hudson and the paramedics she had in tow were visible. Mrs Hudson gasped and held a hand to her mouth at the sight of Sherlock.

John almost hoped she'd say something about not cleaning that up, but she didn't, just stood there as the paramedics gently pushed her aside to get to the patient.

“He's HIV positive,” John told them.

They nodded, and made sure they were gloved before slipping an oxygen mask on his face.

“Has anything like this happened before?” one of them asked.

John looked up. “Oh, no. He had a cough yesterday, but nothing like this.”

“What were his last counts like?”

“Not great. But nothing that indicated he was prone to bleeding.”

Sherlock groaned as the other man searched for a vein in his arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “You're a hard stick.”

“Yeah, he is,” John said. “Try the basilic vein in the right arm.”

The man looked at him blankly.

“Lift your arm up Sherlock.”

Grumbling, he obeyed.

John pointed out the faint blue vein underneath Sherlock's pale skin. “Right there.”

“Thanks,” the paramedic said.

Sherlock still grumbled as he was poked and prodded, but at least the line was in, and John was content.

 

A few minutes later, and they had Sherlock packed up on a gurney, neatly bundled for transport.

They were wheeling him out when John remembered Mrs Hudson, still up against the wall, hand against her mouth, face wet with tears.

“Oh Mrs Hudson...” John murmured, taking her in his arms for a hug. “It's alright. I'll go with him and call as soon as I know anything. Why don't you go to Mrs Turner's. It would make up for all the times she comes over here in the middle of the night worrying about her married ones.”

Mrs Hudson nodded, sniffing, and John stepped back.

“Oh, I've gotten blood on you. I'm sorry. You should take that off right away.”

She nodded again.

John softened. “I've got to go. He'll be fine,” he murmured, kissing Mrs Hudson on the cheek before catching up to the paramedics, who were halfway down the stairs. He only paused to grab the bags they had packed for this purpose, and his mobile.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock was quiet for most of the journey.

He'd found John's hand at the bottom of the stairs, and hadn't let go of it since. The paramedics had let him ride with them, assuming, like most did, that they were a couple.

“John?” Sherlock rasped.

“What?” he asked, moving in closer to hear over the sirens.

Sherlock tried to slip the oxygen mask off, but his arms couldn't seem to make it to his face. John tipped it to the side for him. “What's the date?”

John frowned. Sherlock was worrying about the date at a time like this?

“The date?” he repeated.

Sherlock nodded.

“I'm not exactly sure. It's after midnight though, so that makes it October... tenth? I think.”

Sherlock's face fell slightly, but he nodded.

John slipped the oxygen mask back on his face, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Doctor Rosalind was waiting for them.

She left John for a moment to brief the A&E doctors, then returned to speak with him.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I should have told you to go to A&E right away, and not wait until the appointment.”

John shook his head. “He wouldn't have gone. It's not your fault. You know how stubborn he is. If anything, it's my fault for not noticing. He practically let me carry him to bed.”

John grimaced, knowing how that probably sounded. He was rather beyond caring at this point though.

Doctor Rosalind wisely chose to not comment, and instead spoke about Sherlock's treatment.

“They're working to stop the bleeding, and to figure out what's causing it. There are a number of causes, AIDS related and otherwise, but considering everything else, it's likely one of three things.” She ticked them off on her fingers as she spoke. “Pneumonia, TB, or Kaposi's lesions in his lungs or trachea.”

John exhaled. “None of which are very good.”

“No,” she agreed. “Not particularly.”

John nodded and slumped into the chair.

Doctor Rosalind left shortly after to check on Sherlock, but John barely noticed her go. He was too busy counting days, measuring symptoms, and estimating.

 

* * *

 

 

She returned shortly after to tell him that Sherlock had been sedated, and taken for a chest x-ray. He'd had labs drawn, and was stable for the time being, a blood transfusion making up for the loss that had ended up largely on his pillow, but partially on John.

A fact which she reminded him about.

“You're still covered in blood John,” she said gently.

John had forgotten about that. He'd told Mrs Hudson to take off her bloody clothes, but had disregarded himself.

“Right,” he said. He glanced at the bags he'd brought with him. He'd packed a change of clothes for himself, right?

“Do you want a scrub shirt to wear for now?”

John nodded. That sounded a lot easier.

She returned a moment later with a blue scrub shirt and tossed it to him.

“I suppose this jumper's a bio-hazard now,” he sighed. “Sherlock will be pleased. He always said it was an atrocity.”

Doctor Rosalind snickered.

“I don't suppose he planned it like this, but one can never be sure...” He sighed again. “Thank you.”

She nodded, and slipped out again, promising to return when there were results.


	22. Chapter 22

It was a nurse who came to tell him, not the doctor. He said that she'd be along shortly, but had gotten called for another patient.

Not like it mattered, John could interpret the results for himself.

The chest x-ray wasn't indicative of pneumonia, nor did it show signs of TB. Besides, the blood test for TB was negative.

Which only left Kaposi's lesions, either in his lungs or trachea.

John sighed.

 

Because, really, what could they do to treat that? Pneumonia could be treated by antibiotics, there were medications for TB. But Sherlock had already vetoed chemo for the Kaposi's, and John stood behind that decision. Surgery really wouldn't do any good, and John wasn't sure if there were any medications to treat it. Interferon, which wasn't quite chemo, but often used with chemo may help, but there was no guarantee.

 

John sighed again. He'd just have to wait for Doctor Rosalind to come back and see what she suggested. He was a doctor, but he was certainly no expert when it came to HIV/AIDS, even with all the research he'd been doing since Sherlock told him of the diagnosis.

 

* * *

 

 

Thankfully, she had a few ideas that John hadn't considered.

“We're going to do a bronchoscopy and try some cryotherapy, depending on what the lesions look like. There are size requirements, and a number of other things to consider, which we can't know about until we get a look. Interferon therapy should also help, but this isn't a cure John. I'm sure you know that.”

John nodded.

“I just need you to sign the consent forms, since Sherlock is sedated, and you're his medical proxy.”

John scanned the forms, and scrawled his signature at the bottom. “Are you anticipating any complications?”

She shook her head. “At this point, not doing the procedure would be more harmful than doing it. This way he's in a theatre if anything happens.”

“That's true,” John sighed. “And the interferon therapy?”

“Will be after,” she confirmed.

“Okay. Thank you.”

She left, and John was alone. He collapsed back into the chair and rubbed his face.

 

He'd promised Mrs Hudson he'd call her with an update.

Now was probably as good a time as any.

And Mycroft.

John groaned just thinking about that phone call.

He phoned Mrs Hudson first.


	23. Chapter 23

“Hey Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, John. How is he?”

“He's in surgery right now. They're trying to find the cause of the bleeding, but the doctor is optimistic.” Sort of anyway, but John felt no need to mention that.

“Is he going to be alright?”

John paused. “I hope so,” he said quietly. “I can call you with an update once he's out of surgery, but you can probably come by tonight and see him.”

She sighed with relief.

“How's Mrs Turner?”

Mrs Hudson went on for a few minutes about the problems Mrs Turner's married ones were having (again, she failed to add) and how Mrs Turner was upset about Mrs Hudson's intrusion last night, but frankly she couldn't care.

John smiled as he listened to her, and only hung up after ensuring she would come that evening.

 

Which left him with the other phone call to make.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft seemed almost pleased to be called, even if it was to be told that his brother was in hospital.

After breaking the news, John sighed. “I think we're at the point now where I can't avoid asking you for help.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. “What do you need?”

John rubbed his face. “It'll be quite a few things. I'll have to make a list. But you know he won't want to stay in hospital any longer than necessary, and he certainly won't want hospice care. It's Baker Street or nothing.”

Mycroft sighed in return. “Of course. Email it, fax it, whatever. I'll be in tomorrow to see him, so if you want to wait until then, I can pick it up.”

“Yeah,” John said distractedly, spotting movement at the end of the hall. “I gotta go. Bye.”

“Goodbye Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, and John swore it was almost sad.

But Mycroft didn't do sad.


	24. Chapter 24

Doctor Rosalind strode down the hall to meet him, still in her scrubs.

“John,” she greeted. “He's doing fine. He's still intubated, since the scope caused a bit of swelling, and we didn't want to have to deal with it later on, so we took preventative measures. But we froze the lesions and the surgeon is optimistic. There hasn't been any more bleeding, and his blood counts are looking good now, but he's getting a second transfusion to make sure.”

“Oh,” John sighed. “That's better than I expected.”

She grinned. “He's tough. And annoying.” She gestured for John to follow her, and he did, remembering to grab his bags. “I know that sedatives wear off quickly on him, so I figured I'd take you to him now, so we don't have to drug him again when he gets agitated that you're not there.”

“You're a star, you know that?”

She grinned. “Yes, in fact, I do. And don't you forget it.”

She gestured grandly to the room before bowing out, claiming paperwork to do.

 

* * *

 

 

John phoned Mrs Hudson again, leaving her a message this time, telling her that everything was indeed fine, and that visiting hours were between 5 and 7.

 

That done, he sat down in the chair at the bedside, and threaded a hand next to Sherlock's. Touch was huge for Sherlock, especially when he was confused, as he would be when he would up.

 

Sherlock's stirring increased, until John was sure he was floating on the edges of consciousness.

“Hey buddy,” John murmured, patting Sherlock's fingers as they twitched. “How are you feeling?”

The question elicited a slight shrug from Sherlock.

“You're intubated, so don't try to talk. Or pull it out. I managed to convince the nurses you didn't need to be restrained, don't go proving me wrong.”

His fingers traced something out on John's hand, and it took him a moment to realize what. A question mark.

“Oh, they took you in for a bronchoscopy since you were coughing up blood. Do you remember that part?”

A slight nod.

“The x-rays and blood tests showed it wasn't pneumonia or TB, which left lesions. So what else could they do but stick a tube down there and look at them?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John continued. “They froze them, and they said it was rather successful. They've added interferon to your arsenal of medications, since they know you don't want chemo, even though the oncologist called in to consult seemed rather appalled at the notion.”

Sherlock flicked his wrist at that.

“Doctor Rosalind didn't call him. She understands. That would have been the A&E doctor. At least you were sedated and didn't have to deal with them,” John added. “Lucky for them.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And Mycroft will be along some time today. Now, before you can make faces,” (although it was too late, he was already making them) “I can't talk him out of it. Besides, Mrs Hudson is coming by, and you know how well the two of them get along.”

Sherlock smiled.

He turned his head to the side a bit and drew out another question mark on John's hand.

“What?”

Sherlock shook his head a bit.

John frowned.

“I still don't understand.”

Sherlock drew out something else on John's hand.

y

“Why... what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and managed to gesture towards his mouth a bit, sticking his tongue out for effect.

“Oh, why are you intubated?”

Sherlock nodded.

“A preventative measure. There was some swelling after the procedure, so they wanted to secure an airway.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was a testament to his exhaustion that he didn't ask any more question or indicate he wanted it out. Instead he just closed his eyes, after making sure John's hand was next to his fingers, just in case he needed to tell him anything else.


	25. Chapter 25

Mycroft arrived that evening, after Sherlock had been extubated, and conveniently after Mrs Hudson had left. Moments after, in fact.

 

“How are you feeling brother?”

“Piss off Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered.

“Almost back to normal I see,” Mycroft noted. “John may I speak with you for a moment?”

Sherlock huffed, but gave John a slight nod, and John stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind them.

“Well?” he asked.

“How is he?”

John frowned. “You have access to his medical records. You know exactly how he is.”

Mycroft sighed. “I have test results and numbers, lab reports and surgical summaries. None of those can tell me how my brother is doing, and I'm certainly not going to get it from speaking to him.”

John considered that for a moment. “Yeah, alright. The bleeding was concerning, since we weren't sure what the cause was. It turned out to be lesions in his lungs and windpipe that were the cause. They stuck a tube down his throat to biopsy them, and froze them while they were at it. He's got another drug to add to his collection, but it's looking like he'll be alright. His doctor thinks he can come home by Saturday if nothing else happens.”

Mycroft nodded. “Is this...” he hesitated. “Is this the normal progression?”

John shrugged. “There really isn't any normal, but it's not abnormal. It's definitely progression though, which is worrisome.”

Mycroft nodded again, more solemnly this time.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

John nodded.

Mycroft straightened up, returning to his usual stance of minor government official. “And your requests?”

John got out the slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. “I tried to be as specific as possible, but if there's anything you don't understand, just call me, or text, or whatever.”

Mycroft scanned the list, nodding. He tucked it into his jacket pocket.

“I'd like to speak with Sherlock alone for a bit if you don't mind.”

“Oh sure. I'll just run to the cafeteria. Do you want anything?”

Mycroft shook his head, and John watched him slip back into the room, the door closing behind him.

He'd pick up something for Sherlock, he decided. Even if he wouldn't eat it.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was gone when he returned, and when he asked Sherlock what they spoke about, he refused to answer. John only shrugged.

He fought with Sherlock about eating the pudding he'd gotten for him, but Sherlock had flat out refused, claiming the butterscotch was dreadful.

After dipping a finger in and sampling it to prove to Sherlock it couldn't be that bad, John had to agree. It was dreadful.

“How can they feed this to patients?” John had said, scraping off his tongue with the spoon. “Isn't it against the Hippocratic oath?”

“Cafeteria workers didn't take the oath John,” Sherlock had sighed.

 

John went home to Baker Street that night, and returned the next morning with edible food, most of it made by Mrs Hudson, who was happy to help once she heard about the hospital food.


	26. Chapter 26

As predicted, Sherlock was able to leave by Saturday, which was good, since the nurses were growing sick of storing leftovers in the fridge that they couldn't eat.

John brought muffins for them, as a 'thank you for treating Sherlock and not killing him accidentally on purpose' present. After all, he'd likely be back, and John didn't want to have to deal with unhappy nurses.

 

Mycroft sent a car for them, but didn't make an appearance himself, which both Sherlock and John were immeasurably grateful for.

His work was evident when they arrived back at Baker Street though, all of the things on John's list fulfilled and more.

 

Sherlock didn't comment, but John knew he was aware of who was responsible.

 

Sherlock slept a lot in the first few days after returning home. When he was awake, he insisted upon getting dressed and maintaining his facade of normal life, but John could see the strain it had on him.

By the end of the first week, he'd stopped insisting they go out (with John initially refusing, inevitably agreeing, and eventually dragging him back) and sullenly remained on the couch, or some days, in bed, accompanied by his laptop and the occasional textbook.

They watched a lot of telly those days.

John enjoyed making Sherlock watch a number of classic movies he'd never seen before.

 

* * *

 

 

The couch had conveniently been relocated into Sherlock's bedroom. Mycroft denied it was his doing, but John doubted anyone else would break into their flat, rearrange their furniture, and leave without taking anything.

John was curled up on it rereading one of his favourite books, listening to the London autumn rain fall.

Sherlock sighed, and John looked up at him. He was still asleep, just rolling slightly.

John smiled and flipped the page.

 

“Read to me John,” he murmured.

Surprised, John looked up. “I didn't think you were awake.”

Sherlock ignored his comment. “Read to me,” he said again, lolling his head to face John.

“Alright. But I don't want to hear any complaints about the content, impossibilities of the story, or any comments about my reading, alright?”

Sherlock nodded, and with that, John flipped back to the front of the book.

He began reading with a smile. “Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing...”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock seemed to like that book, even if he fell asleep halfway through. John simply picked up again later, when Sherlock was more or less awake, but still almost dreaming. It was the sort of book that went well with a dream state.

They went through a few books that way. Sherlock never complained about the content, and John never told him he had to stop because his throat was sore, even though they could both hear it.


	27. Chapter 27

By the end of that week, John was seeing the sharp decline, both in lung capacity and mental function. He put Sherlock on oxygen for the lungs, but there was nothing he could do about his mental state. It waxed and waned to some unknown cycle that Sherlock probably could have figured out, had he been up to it.

Except he wasn't, obviously.

 

Because Sherlock wasn't even always lucid when he woke up, a combination of the disease, and the lower than desirable oxygen saturations. Even the extra oxygen wasn't helping that much any more. It was unsettling when someone wasn't themselves. It became especially unnerving after you'd been with them every day, and hadn't been able to see the physical change, but the behavioural changes came on so suddenly there was no time to get used to them.

 

But John liked to be there, whether it was to urge Sherlock to calm down, and try to remember what was going on, or to talk with him about cases and reasons why people were idiots. Obviously, he preferred one to the other, but he was learning more and more to take what he could get.

Especially since every day grew shorter in terms of interaction.

 


	28. Chapter 28

This day was different. John could feel it. Sherlock had been lucid for a relatively long period that morning, and he'd been discussing with John the significance of quotes.

“They're pointless,” he'd argued.

“Not everyone is as eloquent as you,” John pointed out.

“Yes, your blog is proof of that,” Sherlock smirked.

John tossed a pillow at Sherlock's head. “Oi! Watch it! Some people just aren't capable of finding the right words, and that's when they use someone else's. There's nothing wrong with that. It's like... taking advice from a friend.”

Sherlock snorted. “Because any of my friends ever give good advice.”

“I suggest you shut up before I throw something heavier than a pillow at you.”

Sherlock didn't respond to that.

“Good plan,” John had said.

 

Sherlock had fallen back asleep shortly after that, but John was left pondering what he said.

 

He'd woken up again around lunch, but wasn't as coherent then. John tried to get mouthfuls of soup in him around the muttering about monsters not being real, but created by our minds.

He'd gotten half a mug into him before he fell silent and unresponsive. He wasn't asleep, because his eyes were still open, but rather he seemed to be deep in thought, though about what John couldn't be sure.

John sat back on the couch with his laptop. He'd gotten halfway through reading a news article about a suspicious death, wondering if he should bookmark it for Sherlock to look at later, when he spoke.

“We make up horrors... to help us cope with the real ones.”

John nodded, and with that approval, Sherlock sighed and rolled over, falling asleep.

 

He typed the words into google shortly after, amused to find it was a quote.

“And you said they were pointless...” John muttered to himself. He smiled.


	29. Chapter 29

He wandered out to the kitchen later, made himself a cup of tea, and flicked on the telly, looking for anything interesting to watch.

One of his favourite movies was on, V for Vendetta. And no wonder, once he realized what the date was. Guy Fawkes day. The festivities had likely already begun, bonfires and drinking, with the fireworks to come just before dark.

 

He watched it while nursing his tea, enjoying the themes behind the masked crusader's vengeance. He wondered if Sherlock liked the movie. They'd watched it before, and by that, John meant he watched while Sherlock did some sort of experiment in the background, but he'd never said anything.

Which, when dealing with Sherlock, was probably a good thing.

 

He set his cup in the sink, and rinsed it out with cool water before returning to the bedroom to check on Sherlock.

He felt the eyes on him before he saw them, peering out of the murkiness.

“Look who's awake,” John said, going over to the window to open the blinds slightly.

“Yes, indeed I am,” Sherlock sighed.

John returned to the bedside. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Do you need anything?”

He shook his head.

John shrugged, and sat on the couch, pulling his laptop towards him. Before he could even open it, Sherlock spoke again.

 

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” Sherlock muttered.

John smiled. “The gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason-”

“Should ever be forgot,” Sherlock finished.

“I should be quite pleased you know what the date is.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tilted his head towards the hallway, and consequently, the telly in the living room. “You're watching the movie. You only watch the movie on November 5th. And I can hear the fireworks.”

John smiled. “Clever detective,” he murmured, smoothing down his curls.

Sherlock smiled too.

They sat like that for a few minutes, John's movie quietly playing in the background, while outside, the sounds of firecrackers were already beginning, even before dark.

 

“John,” he said quietly. “It's time.”

 

All hints of a smile on his face vanished, but John nodded, once, slowly.

He didn't want to. What he wanted to do was protest, to beg Sherlock one more day, one more week, one more month. For Christmas, for the new year, to see his next birthday.

But he didn't.

Because he saw Sherlock.

And he wasn't Sherlock anymore. All the things that he was, brilliant and arrogant and pompous and fascinating and genius and annoying and wonderful. They weren't there. The disease had taken everything.

And now Sherlock wanted to take something before the disease could. John understood that.

 

Besides, John could never say no to him.


	30. Chapter 30

The IV line was already in place. Sherlock had barely been able to eat for the last few days, and John had been worried about his electrolytes. A saline solution had taken care of that.

Sherlock had fussed about it, of course, but especially now, he didn't have the energy to keep up the charade. And that was all it was, really. Anyone close to Sherlock could recognize it.

 

All that was left for John to do was draw the drugs up and inject them.

But it seemed so forceful. He was actively helping Sherlock end his life. And it physically pained him. For the past few months, any time he'd thought about it, something would grip his chest, and he'd have to sit down and catch his breath.

But he understood. He really did. And seeing Sherlock like that only cemented his understanding.

But that didn't change the fact that he was a doctor. And doctors were not supposed to harm.

 

It wasn't about the legality. They'd made sure. John wouldn't be able to have it traced back to him. There would be suspicion, of course, but Mycroft would ensure it disappeared.

Besides, who would investigate? Sherlock was well known among police in London, and often outside London as well.

They would know. And most would understand.

The few that didn't would quietly disappear.

That wasn't it. And it wasn't even so much the morality, because John could _feel_ this was right, even if his brain was screaming at him that it was wrong.

 

But all of those reasons, the doubts, all of it, would disappear every time Sherlock looked up at him, begging silently.

And so with a set of eyes following him, John took a deep breath and drew up the syringes.

 

He capped them, laid them out in a row on the side table, disposing of the drug vials before returning to the bedside.

Sherlock patted the bed beside him.

John eased into it, careful not to touch Sherlock, fearing he may break with the slightest provocation.

They laid there for a moment, both quiet except for the sound of Sherlock's rattling breaths.

“Are you sure?” John whispered. There was no need to ask. He knew the answer.

“Yes,” he replied.

John blinked up at the ceiling. It was boring. With Sherlock being in bed all day, he should have put something up there to look at.

Perhaps a poster of the solar system.

 

A laugh escaped from his lips before he could stop it.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, but John only shrugged.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting up.

He dragged his hands down his face. “This is just stressful, and my emotions are all over the place.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered. He nodded to John.

 

John got to his feet and stared at the syringes. Drugs were funny things. Years ago, Sherlock had taken drugs to escape. Now he was again, but on an entirely different level, for an entirely different reason.

He wondered if the universe had known it would somehow come to this.

But John wasn't sure if he wanted to believe in fate.

 

He picked up the first syringe and held it as he tried to find the words.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “I just want you to know... exactly how much you meant to me. But I'm not sure I can even explain it. Words really aren't enough. Saying thank you has no meaning, not with something this big. And I don't even know quite how many times we had to say we weren't a couple, but dammit Sherlock, I do love you, just not in the way everyone thought. I love you like a brother, like a best friend.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “I know John. And you won't hear me say it, but I feel the same way for you.”

He smiled at John, and he swore his heart cracked right down the middle.

Sherlock licked his lips before going on. “Thank you, John Watson. For everything.”

He nodded to his hand, and John remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

 

John injected the sedative slowly.

Sherlock smiled for the last time, and closed his eyes.

John capped the syringe and moved on to the second drug.

With that one done, he capped the syringe, and moved to the final one, the respiratory suppressant drug. Either one of the final two drugs would have sufficed, but John wanted to make sure it was painless and quick, and Sherlock wanted no room for error.

He hesitated before injecting it, looking at Sherlock's face, somehow, still smiling despite the muscle relaxants.

He pushed it in.

 

He recapped the syringe and climbed back in to the bed with Sherlock, counting his breaths. There were precious few of them before they stopped, the drugs acting quickly. John found his left hand around Sherlock's wrist, measuring his pulse. It too would soon cease.

John had to squelch the overwhelming urge to make sure it never stopped, needing to feel the thrumming of Sherlock's heart beating in order to survive.

But instead, he just lay there as it slowed.

And stopped.

 

And he stayed there, making sure it wasn't going to start again. (Even though a part of him wished it would, he knew, it couldn't.) But he couldn't bear to leave him alone. Not at a time like this.

 

So he lay there until his arm was numb, and he wouldn't have been able to feel a pulse anyway, until the room turned dark around him, and the faint humming of his mobile vibrating could be heard in the kitchen.

 

And if his face was wet when he finally got up, after it somehow managed to get dark, well... that wasn't important.


	31. Chapter 31

There was a funeral, and a service, maybe not in that order, since John couldn't quite recall, but it all generally passed in a blur of other people's tears, and pats on the shoulder.

He was thankful when it ended. Mycroft attempted to speak with him about Sherlock's will, but John denied, saying it would have to wait. He wasn't ready to deal with that yet.

 

Instead he went home, to Baker Street.

It was still home, but now it was only 'his' instead of 'theirs'.

He still hadn't begun to think of it like that, and every time he did, mentally slapped himself.

 

For some unknown reason, he thought it would be good to clean Sherlock's room.

Not actually clean it, but just remove the medical supplies, the reminders of what had occurred before it finally came to an end.

He knew that Mycroft could have send someone, probably wanted to, but he would only refuse. It was far too personal.

 

He went slowly, taking care not to touch anything that had been there before, anything of Sherlock's. He didn't know when he would, _if he would_ , ever get to those.

 

He paused when he came across Sherlock's laptop. It had been largely neglected in the week before his death. It was still on his dresser, where it had been since the last time Sherlock demanded it, which led to an hour of him typing before falling asleep. John had been curious what he was doing, but by the time he realized the man was asleep, the computer demanded a password. And John certainly wasn't any good at cracking them, unlike Sherlock, who seemed to take great pleasure in it. In fact, considering how much Sherlock had enjoyed stealing John's laptop, and cracking the password to use it, he'd been awfully attached to his own for the last few months, at least.

 

It reminded John of the one day in the spring, when he asked what Sherlock had been writing. His eloquent response had been taken from Hamlet, but the fact remained that Sherlock had never actually told him what he'd been writing. It could have been blog posts, but John followed his blog religiously, not wanting to have a repeat of the tobacco ash incident, and would have noticed them.

He had to admit, his interest was piqued.

But it was still too soon, and he set the laptop aside, deciding that was enough of cleaning. Instead, he sat down with his own, the password still the same as it had been a week ago.

With no one hacking in, there was no need for him to change it. Or even have one at all for that matter.

 

There weren't any new posts on Sherlock's blog, but John didn't expect there to be.

He scrolled through his emails, largely condolence letters, and notifications about comments left on his blog, fans having heard about Sherlock's passing, and offering words, support, and general feelings. None of them were very helpful to John, but he made a mental note to type up a blog post soon, thanking them all for caring. The emails he'd have to reply to individually, at least, eventually. Perhaps he could send out one mass email...

He was still musing over that when one caught his eye.

It was from an address he didn't recognize, and his first instinct was that it was junk mail, but the subject line made him look again.

 

_Read at once if convenient, if inconvenient, read all the same._

 

There was only ever one person...

John opened the email.

 

_Since you show little imagination in this department, I've given you the answer. I assure you, as soon as you log on, you will realize what you are looking for._

_I hope you enjoy._

_-SH_

_(g1ad5ton3)_

 

John frowned.

It must have been a password, since Sherlock had often berated him for lacking imagination when choosing his own. (“Using a medical word is not lacking imagination Sherlock!” “It is when you leave the medical journal with the article about it out.”)

And there was really only one thing that was password protected.

So he went back to the laptop he'd just set aside, not willing to break into something private. And here was Sherlock, giving him permission from beyond the grave. (John would have to figure out how he did that. Some sort of time delay, or a third party, since he couldn't know exactly when he was going to die?)

So he opened it and booted it up, and waiting for the screen to demand a password.

When he was prompted, he typed it in, making another mental note to find the significance, because he was sure there was some. _Sentiment._

The computer blinked happily, and the log in screen disappeared, replaced shortly after by the desktop image.

Blood spatter patterns. Typical.

 

But indeed, it was obvious what John was looking for.

That would be the file in the middle of the desktop labelled 'For John'.

 

He double clicked, and the word processor fired up, taking a moment to load.

Pages of text appeared.

John frowned, but read the first line.

 

_There were two broken men, each in different ways. And somehow, they managed to mend each other._

_This is their story._

 

John scrolled down, and down, and down. It seemed to never end.

Sherlock had written a bloody book.

 

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but figured he'd probably do both throughout the course of reading, so he just began.


	32. Chapter 32

He read straight through, not noticing the time pass, or the flat grow dark around him.

It was Sherlock's life, elegantly spun around the progression of his illness, including debates on philosophy, religion, psychology, and even brief interludes to explore crimes and the criminal mind.

It delved into Sherlock's childhood, and John couldn't help but feel he was intruding on something private. (Although, he had to admit, he understood a lot of the Holmes brothers' feud after reading, and he understood what upsetting Mummy meant.)

It led all the way to Sherlock relating his experiences waking up, choking on his own blood, and the rapid decline shortly after. He talked about death, and how it no longer frightened him, but was something he could only expect to come at any time. And he wrote of the end of his life, what he hoped it would mean, and how he hoped it would happen. It was heartbreaking and honest and real. Some of it made him laugh, some made him cry, but it was only when he got to the end that he had to stop for an inability to see the text.

 

Perhaps Sherlock was right about his assessment of John's work. Surely he'd never made anyone cry with his writing, laugh perhaps, but it would only have been because of the content, rather than the crafting of his words. And surely he'd never made anyone weep so profusely that the pages swam in front of their eyes, unable to finish.

 

John wiped his eyes on his jumper, not caring what happened to it, and continued reading what he realized must have been written on the final day that Sherlock demanded his laptop.

 

_As I am likely to die soon, this is where I will leave my work. I invite John to perfect it and end it, as he did with my life, and I leave you with these final words._

_What I write are not sins; I write tragedies._

_-SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However difficult this was for you to read, as I'm sure it was, it was even harder for me to write. I hope you enjoyed it though, if you did make it this far.


End file.
